


How Sam Chisholm and Goodnight Robicheaux met... again and again

by Cahaya (Tarlaith)



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Gen, Goodnight messes with people, Northern Pacific Railway, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pranks, Trains, becoming friends, promptfill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 08:06:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8836897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarlaith/pseuds/Cahaya
Summary: ... until they just decided to stay together.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt:  
> "Like it says on the tin. I loved how important Sam and Goody seemed to be to each other and how much they clearly knew about each other's past, and want to see something about how they met."  
> on the [Mag7_kink_meme](https://mag7-kink-meme.dreamwidth.org/1188.html?thread=73380#cmt73380)
> 
> The quotes mentioned are from Sun Tzu's "The Art of War" and Niccolò Machiavelli's "The Prince."  
> Beta-ed by Random Interloper. (Thanks! :D)
> 
> Enjoy!

**1 – One-Eyed Danny**

The mark Goodnight was trailing went by the name of One-Eyed Danny. He was a sly old fox who had killed his wife and sister-in-law before abducting a young girl and taking her over the border into Kansas territory. His warrant went out a day later, finding Goodnight that same afternoon, who packed his bags and set out to return the twelve-year-old to her grieving parents, vaguely thinking that with that kind of shame to her name she'd never find a husband anyway.

That had been four days ago. Now that Goodnight had finally caught up to them he was starting to wish he hadn't, because Wichita was right around the corner and One-Eyed Danny would get them all killed by the supremely stupid act of pitching his tent this close to an Indian settlement.

Goodnight left his horse out to graze and settled back against a tree, waiting for night to fall. Of course, outside it was never truly dark: above him, a myriad of stars twinkled in a sea of dark blue, their staggering beauty unsurpassed while a stripe of clouds veiled the moon.

He distracted himself by recounting the constellations his uncle had drilled into him when he was young, taking him out into the fields night after night, until Goodnight fell asleep in class the next day and got a whupping for it. Ah, childhood.

Time passed quickly and soon the last birds had fallen quiet. Goodnight got up, brushed the dust from his slacks and went to fetch his rifle. It surprised him that even after all that had happened, the familiar weight still calmed him.

He was careful on principle as he approached One-Eyed Danny's camp, because the man – or the girl – could be a light sleeper. Goodnight had never learned how to move soundless, like a true West Man, but he could sneak.

Approaching the campsite, nestled snugly between a big, gray boulder and the edge of a small forest, Goodnight noticed the distinct lack of smoke in the air. At least One-Eyed Danny didn't light a fire, or Goodnight would have had to seriously question his sanity. He slunk past a few bushes, drew his guns and walked around the boulder – straight into a standoff.

One-Eyed Danny – predictably recognizable by his one eye – was standing with his back to Goodnight and the boulder, clutching his shotgun. At his feet was the girl, face bloody and bruised from what looked like a good kick with a sturdy boot. She was crying and Goodnight could sympathize.

However, the most interesting thing was the other guy: a tall, broad-shouldered _black man_ in bloodstain-friendly black attire, a gun in one hand and a slip of paper in the other. He reminded Goodnight of a painting he'd once seen, a long time ago, of the grim reaper.

Before Goodnight could blink, the weapon was pointing at him, and he froze.

“Who are you?” the black man asked, none too friendly. He nodded at One-Eyed Danny, who was frowning in confusion. “His backup?”

“Hardly. My name's Goodnight Robicheaux.”

The black man cocked his head. “Heard of you.”

“And you are...?”

“Sam Chisholm. Warrant officer from Lincoln, Kansas.”

Goodnight smiled, doing his best to look as non-threatening as possible. “Heard of you.” Because everyone had. The famous black lieutenant. Goodnight was just about to add a pleasant “nice to meet you” when One-Eyed Danny decided he had been confused for long enough.

“SHUT UP BOTH OF YOU!” he roared. “YOU'RE NEVER GONNA BRING ME IN.”

Goodnight reacted before Chisholm could, took a big swing and clobbered One-Eyed Danny over the head. The man collapsed onto the girl, who let out a muffled 'ummph', and suddenly Goodnight and Chisholm were facing each other, guns still cocked.

“One of us needs to bring him in,” Chisholm said slowly. “And the girl.”

“Yes,” Goodnight agreed, not relaxing, “He's worth quite a bit. You need the money?”

“Do you?”

“It seems we're at an impasse, then.”

If push came to shove, Goodnight certainly wouldn't be the one leaving this confrontation alive. Wincing at the realization, he let his hands sink and holstered his gun. “You can have them.”

Chisholm's facial expression didn't change, or if it did, the dark hid it well, but Goodnight got the feeling that he was being gaped at. He shrugged. “ _He who wishes to fight must first count the costs_. I'm not willing to die for a handful of bucks.”

“But kill?”

Goodnight smiled. “Men kill for less.”

He waited until Chisholm had lowered his guns as well, then whistled for his horse. The brown mare came trotting around the boulder. Goodnight grabbed her reins and turned to Chisholm, who was already cutting the girl's restraints. “Well, Mr. Chisholm, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

He tipped his hat and mounted.

Riding off, he just barely heard Chisholm's quiet. “Pleasure's all mine.”

 

**2 – The Lake Fiasco**

Since the bounty for One-Eyed Danny – quite a hefty sum in total – had slipped through his fingers like that, Goodnight was forced to look for other work right away. He managed to bring in two minor criminals, but was still struggling to survive about half a year later. He didn't regret his decision, because being alive at all was worth the price, but he _did_ regret letting the sheriff talk him into taking on the local gang of bootleggers in their own lair. Cave. Whatever.

One-on-one was easy and Goodnight could usually charm himself out of every tight spot he managed to maneuver himself into, but facing seven giant, dumb men worked about as well as it sounded. They questioned Goodnight's mighty fine arguments, confused each other and their boss with counterarguments and in the end just decided to save themselves the trouble of thinking and dispose of Goodnight.

“What to do with him, Sir?” one of the smaller giants asked, twisting Goodnight's arms behind his back. “Do we shoot him? We could put him on a spike, like them Indian's do it.”

“We could throw him into the lake,” another piped up from where he was crouching over Goodnight's rifle, rubbing the barrel as if it were his cock.

“No!” Goodnight gasped, struggling in the small giants grip. “No, please, not the lake. Kill me now, but not the lake!”

The boss lifted a bushy eyebrow. “Why not?”

Goodnight bit his lip and averted his eyes, because this was really rather pathetic.

There was the click of a gun, right at his temple. “Tell me.”

“I...,” Goodnight gulped. “I can't swim.”

The boss considered him for a moment, toothy grin growing wider and wider. “All right. Why didn't you say so? Bonnie –” he turned to the small giant, “throw him in the lake.”

“No!” Goodnight yelled, struggling harder, and the boss backhanded him across the face so hard he could almost feel his teeth rattle. Coppery taste spread on his tongue. The small giant dragged him out of the cave, completely unimpressed with Goodnight's best efforts, and down a rocky slope to a ledge. About fifteen feet beneath them, roughly estimated from what Goodnight could see before he was unceremoniously shoved over the edge, the smooth surface of a small lake glittered in the moonlight and shattered like a mirror as he crashed into it, splashing ice cold water in every direction.

He came to the surface coughing, spitting water and blood from his split lip. It was so deep he couldn't feel the ground. “Help! Oh God, help me!”

The small giant laughed and turned around, disappearing into the darkness.

Goodnight splashed some more water about for good measure and yelled some unintelligible gibberish while taking a look around. The lake wasn't too wide, but sadly surrounded by steep slopes. To get out of here he would need to climb and his fingers were already starting to go numb from the cold.

“Best get to it, then,” Goodnight told himself and swam towards the not-quite-shore. He was quite surprised when there was suddenly another splash behind him. Instinctively, he turned onto his belly and played dead.

Throaty laughter rang out from the ledge. “Look, the first one's already drowned. Screamed like a whore, that motherfucking cocksucker!”

Goodnight bristled, but didn't move. He was above that. Or: he would be, once he'd bashed that imbecile's face in.

The water rippled beside him. “Robicheaux?” A hand grasped his shoulder. “Christ, man, that's what you get for shouting it out like tha –”

“ _Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak._ ” 

Chisholm's, for it was none other than him, eyes widened, but he didn't startle – another testament to how much this man had seen in his life. The surprise on his face turned into amusement almost instantly. “And how's that going for you?”

“Touché.” Goodnight chuckled. “But, if you don't mind me askin', what are you doing here?”

“Followed a lead, heard you shouting, was too late. Can we perhaps get out of here before I tell you the long version?”

“Fine with me.” Goodnight nodded, water dripping from his beard, and pointed at the least dangerous looking slope. “We need to climb.”

“What a joy,” Chisholm commented. He watched Goodnight wearily as he started swimming, but his frown smoothed almost instantly. Together they made it to the “shore,” which was at least shallow enough to stand, if one did it on the tip of one's toes.

“I always enjoyed climbing,” Goodnight said, eying the rock mournfully. It was quite steep. “This might quite possibly change my mind.”

Chisholm shrugged. “At least the landing will be soft. And once we're up there again, we can take our guns back and make them pay. The two of us against those seven, that's good odds. This time, you can have the bounty.”

“And then we die from pneumonia,” Goodnight sniffed, suppressing a sneeze. “And if anything, we share. Damn. I should have shot them when I had the chance.”

“Why didn't you?”

 _Because I couldn't_. “Guess I'm just too nice.”

He glanced at Chisholm, who grinned. “Some optimism, please, Mr. Robicheaux.”

“Call me Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

“On second thought... don't do that until we're on level ground again. Down here it doesn't sound all that promising.”

Thus, they began to climb.

 

**3 – Golden Falls**

All of Golden Falls was celebrating and for once, the cheer didn't feel stifling to Goodnight. Maybe it was because spring had finally returned, the days were getting longer and brighter and the promise of summer lifted even the ill-tempered spirits. It had also been quite a while since he'd last been to a French-speaking town and being surrounded by the familiar soft lilt again was surprisingly comforting. Additionally he wasn't in need of money right now, which practically guaranteed an enjoyable evening.

He strolled down the main street on market day to survey the different stalls. A lot of trading merchants had come to witness Golden Falls' fifth anniversary; spreading their treasures on rented tables, praising their quality and origin. All around were displays of knives, cutlery, clothes, boots, leather, bones, or glittering trinkets made of gold, silver, or colored glass. It reminded Goodnight of an oriental bazaar. He spotted a stack of books and immediately stopped to take a closer look.

He was just turning the first volume in his hands, _The Three Musketeers_ by Alexandre Dumas, when he heard a chuckle behind him. “Somehow, I'm not surprised to see you here.”

Goodnight blinked at the newcomer. “Sam Chisholm, that really you?”

They hadn't seen each other since the mountain lake fiasco – and usually Goodnight avoided thinking back on that and the two-week long cold they had both caught – which, gosh, had that been a year already?

“The one and only, Goodnight,” Sam clapped him on the shoulder. “I see you're not coughing your lungs out any more.”

Goodnight couldn't help but laugh. “You seem to vomit less as well.”

“Looks like we've both done okay.” Sam concluded, grinning. “What are you doing here? On the hunt?”

“I'm... not really,” Goodnight mumbled, his silver tongue suddenly failing him. He couldn't quite tell Sam about how he'd started dreaming about Louisiana and his former nanny's cooking during the past two months and, in a fit of homesickness, had decided to come here instead, because he couldn't work up the nerve to go home after all that had happened.

He was prepared for at least one question, or maybe a pitying look, but Sam surprised him yet again by only smiling. “You free for dinner, then? We could share some stories.”

“What stories?”

Sam shot him an odd look. “Whatever comes to mind. It's been some time, after all. You coming?”

Goodnight relaxed. “As soon as I paid this book.”

 

**4 – The Damn Train**

“How in the world did you manage to lose a whole damn _train_?!” Goodnight asked no one in particular, shock dripping from his voice.

“It was _stolen_!” The railroad-guy yelled, startling a group of Chinese workers into scattering. He frowned at them but quickly turned back to Goodnight. “We need it back, or the company will have our heads.”

“And what do you want me to do, exactly?” Goodnight asked, exasperated. “Smuggle it out and carry it here?”

“Apparently, they want us to lead a frontal assault,” another voice drawled and by now Goodnight would've recognized that low rumble anywhere. He spun on his heel.

“Finally, a familiar face!”

“Goody,” Sam Chisholm greeted, placing a hand on Goodnight's shoulder. “You look good.”

“I would like to return that compliment, but– OWW!” Yowling, Goodnight drew his foot out from under Sam's and tried to scowl at him. He failed miserably, because he was too glad to see him. Then his words from earlier sunk in.

“Frontal assault? On what?”

“The Indian settlement,” Chisholm said, brows furrowing. “But apparently there are no Indians living there anymore. It was taken over by a gang of outlaws and they extended their territory onto the valley, killing the workers who were laying the tracks.”

He showed Goodnight the map he was carrying, which colorfully illustrated what he'd just explained. Someone had drawn a circle around the adjacent valley. There were no settlements, but a river, and the surrounding mountains looked rough. A great home for a tribe and a better hideout for criminals.

“Yeah, good luck with your frontal assault. That position is ridiculously easy to defend,” Goodnight snorted.

“That's why we need you,” said Chisholm.

“What do you want me to do? Talk them into submission?” Goodnight shook his head. “I know you have practically memorized _The Prince_ , and _never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception_ is usually sound advice, but –”

“Shoot them.”

“Excuse me?”

Chisholm looked right at him, an unreadable expression on his face. “That's why I had them call you. You were a sharpshooter in the war. With skills like that, it'll be easy.”

Pained, Goodnight closed his eyes. It was too much to hope anyone would ignore his personal history. His reply was almost a whisper, because his mouth had gone dry. “Fine.”

 

\- -

 

The rocks were rough beneath Goodnight's fingers as he and Sam climbed down the mountain into the valley, close to the settlement. It wasn't a big valley, far smaller than it had looked on the map, without any trees or even high bushes. Just lots of green farmland. Goodnight wouldn't have any trouble aiming from up here and their chosen vantage point was even further below them.

When they finally reached it, the sky was just starting to glow red. Goodnight clenched his fingers around his rifle and tried to breathe evenly.

Just about fifty yards from them stood a few tents that clearly didn't belong to any Indians. Men moved between them, carrying stuff, doing their chores or just walking. Behind them the black locomotive stood on the tracks, still and soundless, like a frozen image.

“Okay,” Sam whispered as he settled in beside Goodnight and checked the pocket watch someone had given him. It was odd to see the tiny golden object in his large hands. “A few more minutes.”

Goodnight drew a shaky breath. He felt dizzy.

“I can see about twenty men from here,” Sam continued. “You just need to take out a few, cause some confusion. Just enough distraction for the others to get over the pass.”

“I heard the plan the first time.”

Twenty-three men. Yeah, he could probably do that. He wouldn't hit all of them – actually, he'd be lucky to hit even _one_ before losing his nerve – but they had back up. The guys from the railway could take care of it. Somewhere above them, there was a rustle of wings, and Goodnight startled so hard he dropped his rifle.

“You all right?” Sam asked, concerned. “You've been on edge since last night.”

“Peachy.”

The minutes trickled by, agonizingly slow. Goodnight could feel himself shivering and tried to suppress it. Much too soon, Sam laid a hand on his arm. “Get ready.”

Goodnight nodded and lifted the rifle, squinting along the barrel. There was a man out front, closer to the locomotive, he'd be the first to spot the others, therefore he would be the first to die. He'd need to hit the head to take him out, no use trying for heart or neck, way too messy besides. No one cared on a battlefield, a messy kill might even motivate the soldiers, or that's what Goodnight's superior used to say. He was a rough man who liked blood and splatter. He died how he had lived – cursing and kicking. God, he could still hear the screams.

Goodnight abruptly lowered the rifle. “I can't do this, Sam.”

“Goody?”

Sam touched his arm and Goodnight pulled back, staring at him wide-eyed. “I know they're not here, but I can hear them. They're so _close_.” He could feel their breath on his neck; death, decay, and the sulfur tang of Hell beneath is all. His destiny.

The weapon slipped from Goodnight's fingers without notice as terror coursed through his veins. Sam picked it up, then took his trembling hand in his. They were warm, why was it that black people always seemed warm, his nanny had been the same, Goodnight thought, trying to think past the howling wind in his ears.

“Goody, listen to me.”

“I'm sorry,” Goodnight whispered, closing his eyes. “I'm so sorry. I know you wanted me to... to –”

“Goody.” Gently, Sam took him by the shoulders and shook him. “Look at me, Goody.”

He didn't want to, but he did it anyway. A warm brown gaze met his, anchoring him to the world, to the _present_. There was a sincere apology in them. “ _I'm_ the one who's sorry, Goody. I knew you didn't like talking about the war or anything before you became a bounty hunter. You know I've never seen you shoot... although a few things make sense now.”

“I'm sorry.”

A shot rang out below them and Goodnight bit down on a scream.

“Stop apologizing,” Sam said, then pressed the rifle back into Goodnight's trembling hands. “I hope you can forgive me for making you do this someday.”

Confused, Goodnight blinked up at him, but Sam was already pulling his guns. “You can stay here, but I need to help the others. If I die... find my brother and tell him, okay?”

With that, he turned and stumbled down the mountain.

Goodnight could only watch, rendered helpless by his own panic, as the first man noticed Sam and pointed at him, yelling. Sam dodged the first few bullets – apparently none of the outlaws were particularly good at aiming – and threw himself to the ground behind a tent. From the other side, the men from the company stormed the valley.

The outlaws quickly clued into the fact that they would be trapped here if they didn't get out right now. Someone shouted an order and the bulk of them retreated to hide behind the locomotive. Sam besieged them from behind, never stopping to shoot, making it look like there were at least a handful of men hiding out.

He managed to force them to retreat in an arc, which would hopefully give the railroad-guys enough time to reach him and provide backup.

Suddenly, there was a movement at the nearby tent and Goodnight tensed. One man and he'd spotted Sam. He was lifting his gun, aiming to kill, to pluck the life from Sam like one might pluck an eagle's feather, taking away something irreplaceable, something beautiful. Taking the chance of him ever seeing his brother again.

Goodnight gripped the rifle, poised it on his knee and allowed instinct to take over. One, two, three, recoil, nothing more than recoil and smoke.

The man fell before he could fire a single shot.

 

\- - 

 

Sam found him later, back at the worker's camp, after having successfully “recovered” the locomotive. Goodnight was sitting with his back to a crate, a bunch of half-rolled cigarettes in his lap. Carefully, Sam settled down beside him. “Thank –”

“Don't.” Goodnight interrupted him. “Just... don't.”

“Okay.” Sam reached out and took one of the cigarettes, finished it and lit it. He handed it over. “I was planning to go West. Salt Lake City. Get away from here for a while. Wanna come along?”

Goodnight took a long drag and blew the smoke out through his nose. Then he looked at Sam, who was watching him with a hopeful expression.

“Sure.”


End file.
